


It's Just Not Natural

by monsterfuckerdean (MushroomDoggo)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Case Fic, Gen, Long, M/M, more characters added as they appear!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-25
Updated: 2020-09-25
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:41:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26650837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MushroomDoggo/pseuds/monsterfuckerdean
Summary: Instead of going to pick up Sam at Stanford, Dean decides to leave his brother out of this new chapter in the family drama and brings in a different hunter on the search for his missing father.
Relationships: Garth Fitzgerald IV/Dean Winchester
Comments: 7
Kudos: 27





	It's Just Not Natural

“Why wouldn’t you call your brother?” Bobby asked, a larger-than-average dose of disapproval sneaking into his voice. “You don’t think he’d care that his fuckin’ dad is missing?”

I scoffed. “That’s-- I didn’t say that.”

“Well, you sure as hell implied it.”

My left hand clenched around the steering wheel. I had to fight not to snap my cell shut right then and there.

Bobby meant well. In all honesty, he probably cared more about how Sam and I were doing than our dad ever did. Not in terms of, say, bodily harm… but in terms of everything else. He wanted us happy, I guess.

Mostly he wanted us together.

Not that I didn’t want Sammy along for the ride again! I just… couldn’t justify going to pick him up from  _ college _ to drag him back down in this shit. He was living the dream, after all; he'd gotten out.

“I’m exploring other options, Bobby,” I said.

“Oh, you’re exploring other options…” Bobby muttered, absolutely seething.

“Just tell me the guy’s name already!” I exclaimed. I smacked the wheel with my palm. “You already tracked him down and everything, why are you suddenly trying to convince me to loop Sam into this?”

“I thought you might come to your senses!” Bobby shouted back. His voice crackled as he hit a volume my cell wasn’t equipped to transmit. “But, hell, I forgot-- You’re a Winchester. You don’t  _ have _ any sense..”

I clicked my tongue in response. Nothing snappy enough to say came to mind.

"You're gonna regret not bringing Sam in on this," Bobby said. He huffed heavily, and the receiver rustled. "Mark my words."

"'Mark my words', who are you?" I laughed. "Who says that?"

There was a long silence. In my mind's eye, I could picture Bobby rolling his head back and staring at the ceiling in utter fury. Not gonna lie, it brought me a bit of joy.

Bobby sighed again. "His name's Garth. He'll meet you at the Biggerson's off route 47. He said you can't miss it."

He hung up--aggressively--but I swear I could hear him calling me a "fuckin' id'jit" even after the I lost the signal. Muttered as it was, Bobby managed to make that phrase into a psychic blow.

Whatever.

I clapped my own cell phone shut and tossed it into the passenger seat.

It's not like I was  _ that worried _ about dad. The man could handle himself. He was a trained professional.

Okay, he was a self-taught professional. But the point stands! He knew what he was doing. He was probably fine, just got zapped with some… I dunno, amnesia or something. A hex.

Or, I guess the more likely answer was that he had decided to chase after something he thought was too dangerous from me to tag along on. That didn't exactly feel great, but it was a point in the column of dad probably being alive, so I'd take it.

Definitely.

Definitely being alive.

I slid into the left lane and sped up a bit. Coming up on the side of the road was one of those blue 'FOOD: NEXT EXIT' signs. Conveniently enough for me, beside the McDonald's golden arcs was a Biggerson's logo.

Bobby could have some magnificent timing.

The Impala rumbled over some uneven asphalt as I dropped back into the right lane.

My tape skipped over to the next tune, and I reached over to turn up the volume. I knew the music on this tape by heart--could have sung it to myself beginning to end, guitar riffs included--but I guess that's why it was comforting.

I guess, at that point in my life, I had certain expectations for how hunters behaved.

They drove big, old cars. They listened to classic rock as loud as it would go. They wore flannels and leather jackets. They generally had a certain… look, I guess. They acted a certain way, y'know? 

Sam liked to tease me about it; how he wouldn't be able to pick me out of a lineup of other hunters if his life depended on it.

Well. He used to tease me about it.

I took the Impala around the gentle curve of the off ramp. The Biggerson's was still down the road a ways, but I could spot the friendly font from here.

I leaned back into the seat.

Being alone was kinda nice, actually.

My music. My driving. My rest stops.

All that annoying bickering--with Sam or with dad--was gone. I didn't have to think about anybody's needs but mine. Nobody teasing me for my taste in music, nobody underestimating me and my abilities.

And that would have been great. If I didn't need the help.

I did need the help, though.

I swung rather recklessly into the parking lot and turned the key. The Impala quieted.

Dad's journal was still in the glove box (a fact that I tried not to let worry me more than was necessary), and I pulled it out to tuck into my jacket. As a little extra insurance, I tucked a handgun into the back of my jeans.

Not that I thought this was a set-up.

I don't know what I thought.

Whatever I was thinking, it wasn't what happened. That's for damn sure.

Just so we're totally clear, this is about what I was expecting:

I would walk into the Biggerson's and immediately spot the lonely, stony man in flannel towards the back. I'd walk up, introduce myself with a handshake, give him a rundown of the situation. He would name a price for his help (usually lodging or food or transport or something), and I would agree to whatever he wanted because I was desperate, and then we'd eat breakfast in silence and head out.

This is  _ not _ what happened. At all.

Every Biggerson's in the United States smelled like unscented cleaning products and grease, and this one was no exception. It may have been a little heavier on a cheese-adjacent smell than others, but that was basically the only difference.

Just like hunters, every Biggerson restaurant is a carbon copy of the one up the road. Same layout. Same seats. Same menus, with the same entrees. Comforting in its own way.

I strode past the seating podium, tossing a polite nod and smile to the waitress, and began to survey the tables.

There were a few families with kids who were very clearly passing through this area on their way to a vacation destination. A good amount of bellowing toddlers. There were a few groups of adults, one of which seemed to be there on business, which was a weird choice. Although… I guess I was here on business. Maybe I wasn't in a position to judge.

One group of college students that seemed to be celebrating good grades in exams. For a moment, I wondered if Sam might be doing the same over in California.

And a grand total of one guy dining alone.

To put it mildly, he didn't look like what I was expecting.

To put it honestly, he looked like a muppet turned human.

The guy was all ears and nose. He had the world's smoothest cheeks--had he ever shaved?--on the world's most out-of-proportion head. He kinda looked like a stop sign.

Instead of sticking to the rigid code of the military cut, he had some fluffier hair noticeably not restrained by a baseball cap. He was wearing a pretty standard zip-up hoodie, and a band t-shirt. I'm about eighty percent sure it was the Wu Tang clan.

The thing that really got me about the kid, though, was the way he absolutely beamed at me.

He was grinning and waving when I spotted him.

I scanned the restaurant a second time, hoping silently that this was all some mistake.

"Hey!" he called. "Hey, Dean! Is that you?"

I closed my eyes, and took in a steadying breath. It didn't help.

"Hey, Dean!"

"Yeah," I barked back. "Yeah, I'm… I'm Dean."

He nodded slowly, as if taking me in. "Alright, very cool."

_ Very cool? _

I slunk over to the booth and slid in across from the stretched-out hobbit.

"You're Garth?" I asked, trying to disguise the disappointment in my voice.

He smiled again. Not a little-kid smile, more like a kindergarten-teacher smile. "That's me."

I stared at him.

This was a joke.

Bobby was playing a joke on me.

A very, very not-funny joke.

"You want something to eat? They have great omelettes here," Garth said. He actually seemed to be in a perpetual state of smiling. "My treat."

I squinted at him. "I think I'm good. Thanks."

Garth shrugged. "Well, alright. You're a right-down-to-business kinda guy, I can respect that."

He pushed his own cup of coffee to his right, then folded his hands together and set them down on the table in front of him. I genuinely felt like I was talking to two kids stacked in a trenchcoat.

"So you're, like, a real hunter?" Garth asked.

He had this kind of a drawl, hardly there. It was the kind of drawl that was so generic and background that he honestly could have been from anywhere, and yet I was certain he was from right-here, Missouri. His voice was about as high-pitched as you'd guess from his generally cartoonish-ness.

I coughed. "Sorry, a 'real hunter'?"

"Oh, is that rude?" Garth sort of shrunk into himself. "I just meant you, uh… well you look the part, I guess." He laughed nervously.

I raised my eyebrows. "Yeah, well, you…" I looked him up and down, trying to find one even moderately hunter-esque part of his look. "You… don't."

He laughed, though it came out kind of like a hiccup. "Not really a leather jacket sorta guy, I guess you could say. Or a steel-toed boot guy."

That was fair. Put steel-toed boots on this guy, he might not be able to lift his feet above ankle height.

"So, your uncle called me in to help you out," Garth explained. "He didn't give me too many details, though."

I chuckled to myself. "Bobby's not my uncle "

"Really?" Garth cocked his head. "He sure  _ seemed _ like an uncle."

...what?

I blinked. "Well. He might be  _ someone's _ uncle. Just not… mine."

Garth considered that suggestion carefully. Very carefully. Thousand-yard-stare carefully.

This interaction was starting to veer off in a not-at-all-productive direction. Also, coincidentally, a direction that I had no intention of exploring.

"Anyway."

"Oh, sure, anyway," Garth agreed.

I set my jaw and sighed inwardly. "No offense, buddy, but…" I clenched one fist against my knee. "You've been on a hunt before, haven't you? You're not some rookie? Because, honestly, I'm looking for somebody with some experience."

Garth scoffed. He actually stood up (as much as you can in a booth) and immediately began pulling his shirt out from where he'd tucked it into his pants.

I balked. "Whoa, whoa! I--"

"What does  _ this _ look like to you?" Garth said, yanking his shirt up over his ribcage.

I hesitated, but leaned across the table a bit and examined the guy's torso.

There was, running along the line of his lowest rib, a line of skin which was somehow even paler than the surrounding porcelain.

"Uh…" I squinted. "Birthmark?"

"What?" He squeaked in genuine surprise. Garth contorted to examine his own ribs, as if he could hardly remember what they looked like.

All I could do was watch. Requesting that Garth sit down literally did not cross my mind.

"No, no, thats--" He looked up at me and laughed. "That's from a knife fight I got in with a vampire one time. Used to be a lot more impressive, but I guess I'm a quick healer."

Garth flopped back down into the booth and set about tucking his shirt back into his jeans. I tried not to probe further on the ‘knife fight with a vampire’ bit.

I stared at him blankly. "Are you?"

He looked up at me. "Yeah, you bet," he said, smiling a little prideful smile. "I promise you, Dean-o--"

"No Dean-o," I spat.

"I promise you, Dean," Garth picked up, not skipping a beat, "I've been around the block a few times. I've got your back on this."

I didn't say anything.

Garth finished adjusting his shirt to his specifications, and put his hands back up on the table.

I stared at him.

He stared back.

"Did I mention how good the omelettes are here?" Garth asked. "Really, better than any other Biggerson’s I've been to."

I forced a smile, though it probably looked more like an aggressive grimace. "You mentioned it."

"Oh, duh. Sorry, I can be a little forgetful sometimes." Garth reached back over to pick up the menu. "Sure you don't want some flapjacks? Something for the road?"

"I'm good," I said firmly.

Garth shrugged, happily unphased, and pushed the menu towards the edge of the table. "Alrighty. You wanna tell me about your case, then?"

I cracked a knuckle. Then one more.

This guy was not gonna be easy to pin down.

With luck, though, I wouldn't have to. We'd head out and have this thing buttoned up in a few days, max.

"Sure," I said. "Why not?"

Garth sort of giggled in response, not unlike a teenage girl.

I glanced around the diner quickly, searching for any pricked ears or concerned patrons. Everyone seemed to be adequately absorbed in their own shitty breakfasts.

Against my better judgement, I slipped dad's journal out of my jacket and laid it out on the table.

Garth leaned forward inquisitively.

I looked up and maintained steady eye contact with him while sliding the journal back towards myself.

Garth sat back against the booth.

"My dad's been missing a few days," I explained, leafing through the journal for its latest entry. "I'm nervous because… well, because he knows how to look out for himself, first off. Second, he was working this case…"

I turned the last two pages over and found the final entry. It wasn't long, just a few obits and a location. 

Regardless, I spun the notebook around and slid it back towards Garth.

"Ten guys go missing off this stretch of highway in the past twenty years," I said, pointing to a few of the pasted-in obits. "All men, all alone. And since--"

"Vengeful spirit, you think?" Garth asked.

My mouth was left hanging open, mid-thought. "Uh. Maybe. But I'm worried because, y'know… with my dad missing…"

Garth looked at me blankly.

"And guys disappearing off the road…" I continued.

Guy was like a statue. Literally.

"And my dad being a guy who disappeared…"

"Oh!" Garth smacked his forehead with one hand. "You're thinking the ghost took him."

“Garth!” I scolded under my breath.

Garth looked surprised, and glanced out at the restaurant. “What? It’s not like they’re listening.”

To his credit, everyone else in the place seemed to be focused on having their own uninteresting conversations, or controlling their own unruly children.

I let out a huge sigh and put my hand on my forehead. “Fine. Yeah. The ghost, or whatever it is."

Garth nodded thoughtfully. He stared down at the page with unrivaled intensity, though on closer inspection he didn't seem to be reading at all. His eyes weren't scanning the clipped articles at all, just kind of looking through them. Like he was superman testing out his x-ray vision or something.

He did it for a while.

Look, I try not to judge people. I’m shit at not judging people, but I try. You can't be a judgy bitch all the time when you're trying to help people, because you'll get yourself all wrapped up in how much you hate the person you're trying to save and make stupid mistakes. Hunters aren't a petty breed, practically by design.

That said.

There’s another category of judging which I like to call reading. It's not so much making snap decisions about a person as it is… just picking up on behavioral cues and making predictions.

It's science or whatever.

Science-adjacent.

Anyway, I got a few things off of Garth; first and foremost that he most definitely had ADHD, and had missed the diagnosis as a kid. Even just since I'd sat down, his attention had yo-yoed up and down more than a few times. Second, he was young. And I don't mean like I noticed he was physically younger than me-- I mean this was a  _ kid _ . And I had trouble believing in his ability to man the fuck up.

Then again…

Sam was a kid, too.

In fact, they were probably pretty close in age.

“Alright,” Garth said. He looked up at me. “Sounds good. When do we leave?”

“As soon as possible,” I said.

“Cool beans.”

_ Cool beans? _

“I’ll just get a breakfast sandwich to go, then,” Garth continued, motioning over a waitress.

I reached over and snatched my dad’s journal off the table, tucking it quickly back into my jacket before the waitress could see it. I decided not to comment on Garth’s situational awareness this time, as that seemed to go nowhere. 

“What can I get you boys?” the waitress asked.

Garth smiled warmly at her. “Yeah, we actually gotta get goin’. Could we get a bacon-egg-and-cheese sandwich, and…” he trailed off, looking to me for input.

I gave him nothing.

“Two breakfast sandwiches,” Garth decided. “And, um, two coffees? All to go.”

The waitress scribbled it joyfully into her pad. “You got it! Be right up.”

Garth waited for the waitress to leave before turning his smile on me, apparently very proud of himself.

“Don’t do that,” I said.

“Do what?” Garth asked innocently.

“Just--” Yeah, Dean: do what? Order you food? Keep you fed and comfortable? “You know what.”

Garth shrugged one shoulder. “Whatever you say.”

Jesus Christ.

I leaned back into the booth and folded my arms over my chest. My thoughts returned to Bobby; Bobby, who  _ knew _ this guy. Had  _ talked _ to him. And, yet, thought that he would somehow be helpful. That we would get along.

Or, shit, maybe he knew it’d go this way, and he was using all of this as some clever ruse to force me into working with Sam again.

I wouldn’t put it past him, that's for sure.

Whatever.

Either Bobby legitimately trusted this guy, in which case I should trust him, too, or he was testing me. A little bit of a challenge, a jab at my patience.

And I never back down from a challenge.

If for no other reason than to prove Bobby wrong, I would get through this.

I tugged at my jacket, sat up straight, and cleared my throat. “It’s gonna be a bit of a drive, so we’ll have to stop at a motel at the halfway point. I’ll need you sticking close on the highways so we don’t get separated before then, alright?”

Garth sort of cocked his head. “Oh, I… I don’t have a car.”

I blinked. “You don’t have a car?” I repeated in disbelief. Garth nodded. “How did you get here?”

“My roommate drove me.”

“Your room--” I stopped myself, growling softly into my hands. “So, what? You’re… you’re riding with me?”

Garth smiled his little, goofy, looney-toons smile. “Guess so!”

Mother _ fucker _ .


End file.
